A Bloody Mess
by Lily Undomiel
Summary: Maybe it's a mad house, maybe it's some sort of odd American form of a circus, but for sure it was, as England aptly put it "a bloody mess." In which America and has fifty children, whom no one knew about. UkUs, PruCan, and past UsWorld


A/N: This story was co-written by Insane. Certifiably and was beta'd by the amazing Melody Syper Carson. This is my first story so please give me constructive criticisms. Flames will be used to make smores.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize here belongs to Himaruya. I own nothing and am making no money from this.

_**Chapter One: An Unexpected Appointment**_

The phone rang.

England ignored it.

If it was something urgent, whoever it was would call again, but right now he was putting the finishing touches on some rather intricate paperwork, and he really did not want to be disturbed and have to start over. Sure enough though, the phone stayed silent for only a few seconds before it rang again, more insistently this time.

Reluctantly, he reached over and plucked up the device from its stand on his desk. "Hello?"

"England?"

The nation pulled the phone away from his ear and blinked. He would know America's voice anywhere, yet in all the time he'd known America, the nation had never sounded quite so nervous. "America?" he ventured, not quite sure whether it was a strange sort of auditory hallucination or if it was the phone making all of that static.

"Yes?"

Now he was certain. That was the nation across the Atlantic, and he did sound like something was making him nervous. Although he hadn't heard this level of nerves since just before D-Day.

"What is wrong?"

There was a pause on the other end, then America exploded into words all at once. "I can't explain over the phone. Can you meet me in Washington D.C, this Saturday? I know it's short notice, but please. I need to see you in person!"

England's heart skipped a beat. America never called up people- even when they weren't people, but nations- personally. It had to be something special for the self-proclaimed hero to be calling England, himself. Could it be that perhaps America felt... Ruthlessly, he shoved down the foolish notion. They had walked that road before, and the War of 1812 came vividly to mind.

"I'll be there," he promised, heart thundering traitorously in his throat.

"Okay, thanks so much," America sounded distinctly relieved, and -someone was yelling in the background- _who was yelling at America_? Before he could pick up anything distinct, America was talking again, very rapidly. "_SeeyouonSaturdaythengoodbye!_"

There was a click, and England was left holding a dead line, not entirely certain if he should be fond or exasperated at the git's antics.

He decided he was both, and turned back to his papers.

* * *

Somehow, Saturday couldn't come fast enough even as time was rushing out of control around him. His nerves were betraying him again and he almost talked himself out of the trip at least three times, which is what led to him sitting in the Heathrow airport at a ridiculous hour of the morning, glancing at the clock every ten seconds. They tended to avoid private meetings, easier for everyone to pretend nothing had happened and avoid temptation that way.

_Get a grip on yourself_, he scolded internally _It's not like America never meets with nations. It's probably something stupid, something with China that he wants a neutral party for._

_He wouldn't need you to come personally if it was just something like that_ argued the traitorous hopeful snippet in the back of his head_ a phone call would work just as well._

England sternly told that niggling little whisper to shut up and pulled out some paperwork he'd been putting off. His vacation didn't officially begin until he left the country, and besides, he wanted to keep the country's affairs from becoming too much of a mess while he was gone.

But he couldn't focus, because at that moment, his phone went off, blaring for the world to hear:_ "You make me feel like I'm living a teenage dream, the way you-"_

England scrambled to get the phone out of his pocket as quickly as possible and slammed it to his ear without looking to see who was calling, desperate to get the song."What do you want?" he snapped.

"Oh," said America on the other end, "you hadn't heard your new ringtone yet, had you?"

As a matter of fact, his phone had never behaved in such a way before. England took a moment to glare at it, as though that could force the bundle of circuits to give up its secrets or at least tell him who had done such a thing.

"Italy did it," America was saying when the Brit returned his phone to his ear, "but only because Prussia dared him to and told him it would impress Germany."

Because America had no possible way of seeing his reaction and because the nation was, quite frankly, adorable when he was flustered, England allowed a slow smile to spread over his face. "Remind me to put one of my brothers on him," he said.

"I will," America promised, and there was a comfortable sort of silence for a moment. Then the blue-eyed nation cleared his throat, effectively breaking the moment. "Ah, I was just calling to tell you there'll be somebody at the airport to pick you up. He'll have a sign-" there was something crashing in the background and a rabble of voices, into which America yelled something indistinct, "Sorry!" he shouted rapidly into the phone, "sign'll say 'Worldwide Estates' I have to go!"

The phone sounded like it was in danger of shattering, it was set down so rapidly, and England was left on the end of a disconnected line again. Just then, they called the plane to board. Even with his connections, he hadn't been able to get a direct flight to D.C. on such short notice, so he had a stopover in New York before heading on to America's heart and the capitol of the United States.

If he had been of a more romantic turn of mind, he might have thought there was something in that, America inviting him to his heart. Unbidden, the image of the city in flames rose up, and America screaming as his capitol burned. His own heart clenched reflexively, and he shook off any such foolish notions.

The customary shuffle down the aisle to store his bag later, England was sitting in the window, watching the activity on the runway as the plane filled up around him.

_You're going to see America!_ cheered the hopeful snippet, as though he might forget if not reminded.

_I've seen America hundreds of times,_ he told himself firmly, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that something about this was going to be different.

Leaning further in, he set his forehead against the glass, feeling the London chill seep into his skin and closing his eyes. America had always been special to him, even when they were across opposite sides of a battlefield, he had been loathe to battle the younger nation.

Was that weakness?

_Perhaps_. He refused to entertain thoughts of anything else it could be, they had done that song and dance before. The plane shuddered as the engines engaged, jostling him against the window.

Eventually, he fell asleep somewhere over the Atlantic, grateful for the window to lean against and the blanket that, as he dreamed, turned into a familiar brown coat that tucked up around his ears, still warm from its owner's body.

* * *

He was jostled out of his dreams by someone shaking him, the person in the seat next to him telling him they were landing. For a moment, he blinked groggily, trying to remember where he was as the captain announced that they were preparing for descent in New York. A questing hand went sideways, but the too-blue eyes and sunlit smile had vanished, fading away into the depths of his mind, becoming more and more vague the harder he struggled to hold onto it, and his knuckles only knocked into the side of the plane.

The Brit shook himself, forcing reality to fall back into place. He was heading to Washington D.C.

To see America.

For_ business._

"Attention," the captain interjected into his thoughts, "we will be parking shortly. Please disembark in an orderly fashion, and see the sights, and enjoy what New York has to offer. And if anyone wants to bring me back a bagel, don't restrain yourself."

There were some chuckles at the pilot's attempt at humor, and England stared out the window while the rows in front of him emptied. His connecting flight wasn't for the better part of an hour, in that helter-skelter way of airports, so he had time to burn, breakfast to have, legs to stretch.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting on a bench in front of a window, watching the city he could make out. It was bustling, loud, with everyone running every which way as they tried to do several things at once.

It suited America perfectly, England mused as he ate what passed for food in an airport. He'd long since stopped trying to order tea here, Americans did strange things to the beverage, but the pastries were passable, if a bit sweet at times. The nation always seemed to be torn every which way, trying to do more than his share, save everybody and pick up their burdens. It was simultaneously one of the things that made him like America and one of the things that made him want to shake some sense into the nation.

He ignored the safety video after his next flight boarded-he had been around when cars were invented, he knew how to put on a seat belt, thank you- and fell back on a sure way to pass the time. He still had a half-image of glasses glinting in the morning light in his mind and attempting to reclaim the picture wouldn't hurt anyone. On that mentality, he sank back into a sea somewhere between daydreams and memories, in a strange place where they were happy and life was simpler.

* * *

People filed out in a less than exact manner, rows partially emptying even as those behind them stood empty. England scooted over into the recently vacated aisle seat, waiting for an opportunity so he could pull his bag out of the overhead compartment.

"Can I help you there, lassie?" asked a Scottish accent.

There was a yelp, and sounds of a scuffle, but England saw none of it because simultaneously with those sounds something heavy impacted into the side of his head.

"Bloody hell!" he swore, reaching up to rub the spot. Thankfully, the suitcase had not been a hard case, and he wasn't in splitting pain.

"Arthur?!"

It seemed he'd been hit harder than he'd thought, because that couldn't be Ireland. She was still back across the pond.

"Brat!? What're you doin' here?"

Yep. Definitely hallucinating. Scotland could not be here.

Moving slowly, England looked up.

He had to blink several times before he convinced himself that this was not some messed up dream, and was actually happening. He wasn't hallucinating. Ireland was leaning over the seat in front of him and Scotland was looming in the aisle, disbelief warring with shock on their faces.

"What are you doing here?" he blurted out.

"Tha' cin wait 'til we're off this contraption." Scotland said firmly. He reached into the still open bin and pulled down England's bag, while Ireland fished hers up from the floor and the pair of them ushered him down the aisle and off the plane.

"Alright brother," Scotland started, "what are yer here for then? You and America finally get over yurrselves and headed off for a romantic rendezvous?" He waggled his eyebrows and nudged him with an elbow.

Embarrassingly, England found himself flushing, partly for his brother's forwardness, but also from the images that flooded his mind at those words. "I am not-" he began indignantly, the stopped. The truth was that he was here for the express purpose of seeing America, even if not in the way that Scotland was suggesting. "I have a meeting with America," he said finally, "What are you doing here?"

The red-haired nation flapped a hand vaguely. "Got a meetin' with some important business man." he replied

"Me too," Ireland sounded taken aback, and she was plucking at the ends of her wild flame-haired curls, "did the man on the phone say who it was with?"

"Nah, they didn't." Scotland realized, "jus' tha' there was supposed to be a sign sayin'..." he trailed off as the crowed moved, revealing what had been hidden from them until now.

Prussia was standing beside a pillar, still posture and uniform at odds with the rush and chaos around him. Next to him was a sign.

"Worldwide Estates," said Ireland.

And that was what was on the sign, and what Scotland had been about to say. England's heart sank as he realized there was nothing special about his meeting with America.

* * *

Prussia strode through the crowds milling around, head turning on a swivel as he searched. While Canada asking him to come visit wasn't unusual, the requested rendezvous point was. They typically met in Ontario or New Prussia, not Washington D.C. This was America's turf, something his easily overlooked love didn't often frequent.

_There_. Crimson eyes looked on a mop of golden hair and Prussia changed direction. Canada was holding a sign that said something he didn't bother to read. He plucked it from the other's grasp and dropped it onto the ground, and kissed the other nation hello. Canada responded enthusiastically, winding his fingers through Prussia's hair. One of Prussia's hands cupped his cheek gently the other still entwined around his waist.

Only once they were suitably breathless did they break apart, and then Canada allowed him only a quick gulp of air before kissing him again, quickly, but enough to leave Prussia breathless as his deceptively meek Birdie took control.

"I missed you, Gil," Canada purred in Prussia's ear, moving his arms to wrap around the other nation's neck.

"I can tell," Prussia replied. Reluctantly, he stepped back, finally remembering they were in a public place, though he didn't go far. Leaning against the pole, he pulled Canada close. "Not zhat I am protesting, but vhy am I here?"

Canada hesitated, covering the moment by bending over to retrieve the sign. "I'm doing Alfred a favor," he explained, "After this, though you-" his voice dropped an octave in a way that made Prussia shiver, "are coming home with me Pruβen"

"I'm all yours _meine Liebe_," the white-haired nation promised, tightening his grip fractionally.

"Oi! Beilschmidt!" a rough voice cut in. Scotland, with his siblings close on his heels, was making his way toward them, ruining what had been a moment.

"Vhat do you vant Ian?" Prussia demanded annoyed.

"We assumed you have a meeting too," answered Scotland, "Thought you might know what's going on."

"I have no idea vhat you are talking about," Prussia snapped back. He knew better than to tell them to ask Canada, while it could be convenient that none of them noticed his Birdie, making proper hellos possible without bringing down the Inquisition, it also tore at him. No one should be forgotten.

"Vat is zis?" the rolling accent, followed by its golden-haired owner, intruded on the conversation, "Are we 'aving a world meeting in ze lobby?"

"But of course Franny," said Prussia with a grin, "No better place to have it." Canada murmured quietly, that France had indeed been invited, but no one was listening to them.

"Perhaps you could answer that," Ireland suggested, "we're here because we were asked to a meeting, but no one knows why."

France flicked an errant strand of hair back over his shoulder. "I too was asked to be 'ere. I received a call telling me zat zhere was an important matter zat needed my immediate attention 'ere."

England was starting to see the pattern, and he wasn't entirely certain how he felt about it. Each of them had been summoned for vague reasons, and it felt more like a ploy to get them all together than anything America might do.

"Everybody was called here by someone they've never met," he clarified, "told to come to D.C. for vague reasons, and nobody thought this was fishy?"

"Of course I thought it vas fishy," interjected another harsh accent. Germany wedged himself into the circle next to Ireland, in the empty space between the redhead and Prussia. "That vas vhy I came."

"I-a came because Germany a-brought me," Italy piped in from where he had been out of sight behind the taller nation, "but also because I was-a asked. And the man on the phone was a-nice to me"

"Enough of zhat," Prussia said lazily, "ve are still vaiting on 'Tonio, but if he does not show quickly, he can figure it out himself, I've got things to do."

"Hold on a moment,"England was getting slightly sick of surprises, "Spain is coming?" This was starting to feel more and more like a plot to get them all together, or some sort of ambush world meeting. But why would someone go to the trouble of luring them here like this?

"Wait up!" yelled Spain, running up to them dragging a protesting Romano along behind him. "What are you doing here?"

"Vell, I vas here to visit someone. But now it seems zat I get to show you to where you are going. Zis will be Awesome!" Prussia said as he began leading them away. Their unofficial guide made straight for a limo parked nearby once they were out and popped the trunk to throw his bag in.

England followed the example and climbed into the waiting vehicle, winding up squished in between Scotland and Ireland. They had to pile in to all fit, but in the end everybody made it in with some room to spare.

"Hold on a moment," France said a few streets later, as the limo turned a corner, "who es driving zis?"

The nations looked at each other in a flurry of short worried glances and found everyone accounted for. The exception to this behavior was Prussia, who simply sat back and watched with an expression of rapidly growing smugness.

"You-a know!" Italy seized on the white-haired nation's silence.

"Ja," he replied.

There was an expectant silence, broken by Germany when it became apparent that Prussia had no intentions of continuing. "Vell?" he demanded, "who is it?"

"Canada," answered the albino.

The entire car blinked at him in confusion. "Who?"

Prussia crossed his arms and refused to say anything until they stopped in front of a large house, big enough to be called a mansion. The whole thing was cloaked in that half-aura that buildings acquired when they played host to nations on a regular basis, designed to prevent humans from looking too closely if they weren't supposed to. This was particularly strong, America must have been staying here whenever he wasn't out of the country for centuries for it to be that strong. Part of England was honored that America would invite him to what was obviously a home, not just a house, part was slightly baffled at why he had invited so many, but not all the nations, and yet another was befuddled at why America needed such a large home.

"His ego is showing," France sniffed, "one nation does not need such a large house."

Germany laughed and started to say something, but England didn't stick around to find out what it was. He started up the walk after retrieving his bag, not even bothering to deny he was fleeing in favor of more civilized company. America, in this situation, was absolutely civilized company.

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob, listening in confusion. Through the wood, he could hear raised voices, lots of them. There were far too many to be the other countries, except perhaps if every county who was not outside was already gathered within. Curiously, he pushed on the door. It gave easily under his touch, and swung open into a scene of complete bedlam.

There were people everywhere, ranging from taller than America to shorter than Italy, in every build imaginable, all apparently determined to have their say. The voice meshed together into a cacophony that reached the rafters and made his ears ring.

"Bloody hell America!" he swore, trying to take it all in, "what is this, some sort of madcap circus? You stupid git, this is a bloody mess!"

The bedlam continued without noticing they had an audience, save one figure who quickly detached herself from the crowd. "Hello," she greeted rapidly, shooing him to step back into the nations gathered behind him. She stepped out and shut the door behind her, closing off the pandemonium, then turned sky-blue eyes framed in honey-gold hair to scrutinize them. "My name is Maria, you must be England." She had an American accent, tinted with a southern inflection, "and France, Prussia, Germany-"

"How does little human girl know who ve are?" Prussia interrupted.

The smile froze on Maria's face, rapidly cooling into a fake version. "Hu- Pardon me," she said politely, and slipped back through the door into the chaos. Seconds later, the house shook as an angry yell filled it. _"Am-er-ica!"_

Prussia looked around at them, perhaps searching for some clue. "Vat did I say?"


End file.
